


slipping through his fingers.

by keehl



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keehl/pseuds/keehl
Relationships: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	slipping through his fingers.

Mail was careful to be totally silent as he propped himself up on one arm, remembering well how light a sleeper Mihael had always been, and not wanting to wake him. Goodness only knew just how badly he needed the sleep he was getting now, the dark rings under his eyes that Mail had only been able to notice once he’d taken his makeup off the night before suggesting that it had been a _very_ long time since he’s had a proper night’s sleep. Gingerly he traced his bare arm with the tips of his fingers, his skin ever so soft under his touch. He smelled faintly of sun cream and shampoo — Mail couldn’t quite tell what the actual scent was, but it seemed floral — making him smile. Mihael had always been sensitive to the sun, skin that pale did nothing but burn the moment the sun peered out from behind the clouds, which wasn’t much of a problem outside of July and August when they had lived in England, but something that he was sure caused him a lot more trouble now; it was a lot sunnier in California than the gloomy old English countryside. Even now, in the dim light allowed into the room through the small gaps in the curtains, he could see a touch of red on his shoulder, where he’d caught the sun. The sight brought with it memories of late summer evenings when they were children, when they used to sit outside for hours and no matter how much sun cream Mihael wore he _always_ ended up burned, the sun turning his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink, which Mihael hated, but Mail always thought was cute. It was a simpler time, before Kira, before L died, before Mihael ran away and disappeared for three years.

Gently he brushed silky blonde hair out of the other’s face, scarcely breathing as he leaned in close to kiss Mihael’s cheek. Perhaps three years wasn’t really that long a time in the grand scheme of things, but when you’re young time feels slower, and when you were only seventeen three years was still a decently sized chunk of your life. It felt to Mail like it had been an eternity since he had last had Mihael in his bed, mere days before he ran away. And there was a part of him, no matter how loathe he was to admit it, that knew this wouldn’t last. When Mihael woke up last night’s alcohol would be out of his system, and he would demand an explanation as to how he got here. What happened. Mail wasn’t sure yet what he would tell him. Sure, Mihael had been _more_ than willing, enthusiastic, but he was drunk, and Mail should have told him no. But he could never say no to him, especially not now, not when he had missed him this terribly — any chance he could see of repairing things between them he just had to take, he couldn’t stop himself, and now he had probably gone and made everything so much worse. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he didn’t want Mihael to wake up, for him to realise what had happened between them the night before. He didn’t want to have to explain why he hadn’t said no, or to have to watch him try not to cry in front of him and somehow keep himself from going to wrap his arms around him, to comfort him the way he used to when they were younger. He didn’t want to have to admit that he was the one at fault, that no matter how much Mihael might have assured him last night that everything was okay, that he wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t, he was drunk and Mail was sober, so the responsibility lay with him to ensure that nothing happened to him, and that he got to bed safely — and alone.

He lay back down, draping his arm over Mihael’s waist and burying his face in the back of his neck, the familiar feeling of his hair tickling his face almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. Mail had never made much of a habit of crying. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel like it sometimes, he had simply always had a very hard time expressing his emotions, and that became even more difficult when it came to Mihael, because to an extent he still didn’t quite understand them. He knew he loved him, of course, that much was clear even to him, but that in itself was confusing to him. All he really knew was that he didn’t know how to be in love, that he was prone to stupid mistakes that only ended up causing them both pain, that when it came to him he didn’t know how to control himself, how to hold his tongue, how to think before he spoke. It was like he was on complete autopilot when it came to him, but instead of being sophisticated and efficient this autopilot was clunky and prone to doing just about everything that could possibly cause accidents. He had always been so careful when interacting with people before he met Mihael, because he didn’t understand them, and he knew that he had to think long and hard before he said anything, to ensure that he properly understood what he was responding to, and that what he said wouldn’t be misconstrued somehow. But feelings overrode thoughts, and while he may have always had only the best of intentions, as soon as Mihael was involved he lost all his senses, said stupid things, things he didn’t mean, and instead of stepping back to think about what he was doing he continued with his mistakes, because he didn’t know how to slow down and properly look at what he was doing until it was too late and the damage had already been done. Mihael had forgiven his mistakes enough times, he had always seemed to have an understanding of what love was supposed to be that mail had never been able to comprehend, and so many times Mail had fucked up only for a tearful Mihael to tell him that it was okay, that he knew he didn’t mean it, that he loved him. He had never consciously acknowledged it, but even back then, when he was fourteen and still trying desperately to figure out how to navigate a relationship, he knew deep down that that could only have gone on for so long. That eventually Mihael would get tired of constantly having to assure Mail that everything was okay when _Mail_ was the one who fucked up, again, and Mihael was the one who really needed consoling. He knew that eventually the other boy would have to give up on hoping that Mail would someday figure out what he was doing, for his own sake. Even after he left, rather than actually acknowledging that, he had opted for telling himself that he would get him back someday, even if he had to follow him to the other side of the world — which he had done.

But that wasn’t what this was. This wasn’t Mihael coming back to him, forgiving him again and promising that everything would be okay. This was Mail being unable to say no and taking advantage of Mihael’s alcohol clouded mind and lowered inhibitions. He hadn’t even bothered to ask where he had gotten whatever he’d been drinking from to start with — because _maybe_ if they were back at home and he’d gotten hold of a fake ID someone might believe that Mihael was eighteen, but there was no way he’d ever pass for twenty-one. He should have asked who was giving him alcohol. It wasn’t Rod Ross, that much Mail was sure of, he knew well what Mihael was like, had spent the last three years getting to know him almost as well as Mail did, and if there was anything he definitely didn’t want it was for Mihael to get drunk and show up at Mail’s apartment. Mail had lost count of the number of times Ross had told him to stay away from him, that if there was anything Mihael didn’t need it was to get involved with him again. As much as he didn’t want to, he kind of agreed with him; he’d proven time and time again that he was bad for Mihael, and until he managed to learn how to control himself when it came to him that wouldn’t change.

He could hear his voice still ringing in his ears from the night before, assurances purred into his ear as he was pushed back onto his bed, the drink bringing out more of the Russian accent that had faded over the years he had spent living in England, but never quite left entirely. Mihael had promised it didn’t matter that he was drunk; he loved him when he was sober too, and the casual ease with which Mihael had been able to tell him he loved him had caused the breath to catch in his throat, had pushed any and all thoughts of resistance from his head and swept them away, leaving only blind, dumb adoration and desire in its place. The fact that Mihael seemed to find it so easy to say the words _I love you_ had always amazed Mail, who had _never_ been able to find it in himself to say the words out loud, no matter how true they were. He had tried to express it instead through his actions, but it was difficult for him to be as physically affectionate as Mihael. He could hold him when he sat in his lap, would wrap his arms around him when they curled up together at night, but he didn’t find it quite so easy to initiate anything, it was hard for him to approach him and hug him, or go to take hold of his hand, or kiss him first. Mihael used to say something about different love languages, about how some people didn’t express affection through words or actions, but Mail could still see the disappointment in his eyes when he told him he loved him and all Mail could do was smile and nod, desperately hoping that he would understand that meant he loved him too.

He used to blame things like that for Mihael leaving. A part of him still did. A big part. He knew, rationally, that the reason had more to do with L dying and his refusal to work with Near, he understood that, but as hard as he had tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault in the weeks and months after he left Wammy’s House he couldn’t help but think that maybe if he had been better at showing how he felt about him, if he had been able to tell Mihael he loved him, had been more affectionate, maybe he might not have left. It wasn’t like they had never taken a break before it happened, it was actually a very common thing. Usually Mihael would break up with him, only to come back days later and tell him it was okay and that he was sorry for overreacting. Mail never thought he was overreacting. He might have had a certain degree of emotional maturity and a much better understanding of romance than Mail, but he was still a child, and for every area that he had developed in more quickly than the average child did, there was somewhere else that he was underdeveloped in; it was an inevitability for children at Wammy’s House, they were intelligent far beyond their years and because of that they were able to behave with a level of maturity that most children would never be able to achieve, but the highly competitive environment there and the lack of any emotional nurturing by adults meant that they struggled in many social areas. While Mihael was always able to mask that with his outgoing nature and expertly feigned confidence, Mail had come to realise as he got older that he was one of the worst affected, the fact that he had once had that nurture from his parents meaning that it was all the more sorely missed.

Because they were on another of their breaks when Mihael ran away, Mail could do nothing but blame himself. He spent months wondering what he could have done differently to make him stay. If he had been more vocal about the way he felt would Mihael have been less inclined to leave him behind? Even after Near had told him the details of the conversation they’d had with Roger, the way Mihael got emotional when the news of L’s death was broken to them, how angry and even _offended_ he had been at the suggestion that he and Near should work together to bring down the man who had killed him, he couldn’t help but think that somehow he must have played a role in his decision to leave. He had never liked how devoted Mihael was to L, sure, and he’d never liked what Wammy’s House did to him, had always thought about how nice it would be to be able to remove him from all that, take him somewhere far away where they could put the whole thing behind them, and allow Mihael to heal, he had hated that Mihael left without him. Selfish. But Mail was selfish, he had realised, when it came to Mihael. Maybe that had been part of the problem, part of the reason he left.

With a sigh, Mail closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before Mihael woke up. Hungover or not, he had always been an early riser, and no matter how much he needed the sleep he was getting now, this wouldn’t last much longer. Sooner or later Mail was going to have to face him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell him any of what he had been thinking about, wouldn’t be able to explain how much he loved him, how hard it was for him to resist giving into him, giving them both what they wanted. What he _needed_. Instead, he’d be silent while Mihael shouted, trying not to notice the tears forming in the other boy’s eyes, and despite how much he knew he’d want to grab him, pull him back, cradle him in his arms and let him cry into his shoulder, he would let him leave, go back to Ross and tell him what had happened. He’d let the only chance he had to repair everything slip through his fingers, pretend that it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as it did.


End file.
